


Chocolate

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Dirty Talk, Feeding, Hand Job, M/M, Stuffing, dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3336596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the one word bottomjohn prompt series.</p><p>sherlock feeds john till he can't take anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chocolate

It's too much. It was too much three hours ago, when Sherlock had smiled and held the fork up before John's lips and said, “Last bite. Open your mouth, John.”

It hadn't been the last bite. It hadn't even been close.

His shoulders are getting stiff. He's been tied to the chair for the last four hours and the plug seated inside him, keeping him closed, vibrates with the roiling growls of his distended stomach. He's so _full,_ in both senses of the word, and he doesn't know what's more distracting, what's making him more miserable right now—the discomfort of his belly or the invasive feeling of the plug that keeps him just on the edge of desperation. He's invaded, utterly.

And he's naked, except for the binding ropes. The plug tapping at the wooden seat of the chair, it's exposed edge scraping along the surface every time he shifts. It's incredible torture and he's aware of how on display, how deliberately sculpted he is right now. His cock is looks pathetic, red and glistening and _tiny_ compared to the bulbous distention of his belly. It pushes his penis away from his body till it's pointing nearly straight out again, the fluid that builds from the tip dripping onto the floor between his legs.

He knows that this can't last forever. That when Sherlock has finished playing whatever game this is he will untie John, massage stiff joints back into submission, let him cleanse himself in the bathroom, give him a small measure of privacy before putting him in the tub and finishing the job with the enema hose, filling John up from the other end this time.

To be honest, it's the only reason John lets him play this game still, for the aftereffects. For the hours of pleased and purring Sherlock afterwards, for the feeling of being too full, of being clean, and the glory of being thoroughly fucked, which Sherlock always does after all their games as if needing to re-establish his dominance over the games themselves, the games he himself created. But that's Sherlock, always this war between his head and his heart, his need and his desire. As if John needs Sherlock to remind him who he belongs to.

They are in front of the fire right now, the blaze high and hot to make sure John doesn't catch cold. Sherlock is ruddy in the light of it as he leans forward in his seat, bridging the space between them with the spoon in his hand.

“Ice cream, John. Because you've been so good.”

John moans and tries to close his mouth but he can't. It's too hard to breathe otherwise and he doesn't have the energy to fight his own body. But he manages to shake his head, letting it fall forward, staring down at his own groaning body, his pathetic cock like a pointer on its lead, drip-drip-dripping between his spread legs. In his arse, the plug shifts and he makes a sound, small and wanting.

Sherlock chuckles. “Silly boy. It's your favourite. Chocolate. I bought it just for you.” And then the spoon is at John's lips, pushing into his mouth and he closes around it, swallowing in spite of himself, feeling the cold at the roof of his mouth, sliding down his throat.

“Good boy,” Sherlock croons, and John watches his cock twitch at the praise, something not lost on Sherlock as he makes a low pleased sound. He reaches an immaculate long-fingered hand to where it bobs grotesquely in the air and John almost stops breathing when a finger meets the tip.

“Still hungry, I see,” Sherlock says, and John watches in awe and relief as he wraps a hand around John's cock and starts to piston it slowly back and forth.

It's too much. John's flesh is so oversensitive that he tries to pull back, tries to get away from that sensation that goes just that bit beyond the line of pleasure. But he's tied in the chair and the only thing the motion does as he squirms and rocks in the wooden seat is shift the plug inside him. Sherlock just laughs, and rubs John's cock even harder.

“It's so tiny like this,” Sherlock says. “So small compared to the rest of you. Small and red and wanting, just like you, John. Your penis is one of my favourite things. One day I'm going to milk you. Collect it all in a cup, see how much I can get out of you before I let you properly come. Not today, though. Today you need to eat, John. I can tell how hungry you still are. Now come for me, my small John. Come.”

And at the command John's entire body contracts and he comes with an intensity that is more pain than pleasure, his cry more a sound of agony than anything else. He can feel the heat pulsing out of him, forcing its way into Sherlock's hand, still circled around him, till finally its over and John can feel that his face is wet, both tears and spittle.

And then Sherlock's hand is on his face, raising his head and John forces his eyes open, meets that eager blue eye, sees the stiff tent in the black trousers almost at eye level. And then Sherlock's hand, formed in a cup before John's face and the musty sour smell of John's own come pooled in the middle, appears before his face, just below his mouth, and John looks at it, feels his deflated cock already twitching again, trying to get hard already.

“Now, my John,” Sherlock says. “Just one last bite.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
